Offcuts
by Ethanamide
Summary: One shots from A-Z that didn't quite fit. Starting with Z is for Zombies, halloween special! Sherlolly.
1. Z is for Zombies

_My contribution to Sherlollyween! It's not quite what I wanted BUT IT'S FINISHED. This messes with the time lines a little, so bear with. Set after TAB, pre- Mary death. Posted on Tumblr in time for Halloween, a little late here, sorry.  
_

Z is for Zombies

The pathology departments of London took it in turns to host the annual Halloween party fundraiser for Great Ormond Street Hospital, and this year the honour fell to St Bart's, whose parties were the thing of legend. This reputation was well deserved, as Molly Hooper spent 10 months of the year preparing the festivities, along with a supernatural murder mystery based around the cases of one Sherlock Holmes himself. Her meticulous planning, however, often left little time for costume preparation, and as a result, she normally ended up going as either a witch, Sherlock, or John. People didn't need to know that it was _the_ hat, or _the_ coat (or that he'd just left those at her flat for convenience), nor that Sherlock had once cleared out John's wardrobe without his permission, and dumped all of the jumpers that he happened to dislike in her flat. So she'd kept a couple and bought a wig, one year she'd even done the moustache. Mary had howled with laughter at the photo.

This year was a little different, and Molly was equally excited and apprehensive about her choice of costume. She'd never had an issue before, knowing Sherlock had no interest in attending, and John would not attend without him. To commiserate the end of her engagement, and for her own amusement, Molly had made the decision to go as a zombie bride, in the dress that she'd bought to marry Tom in. She'd doused it in real blood, added some torn lace on the top, and would paint her face accordingly. The potential for comments, however, was high. Her costumes were always realistic, but people would never have thought that she would actually have Sherlock's coat, whereas some of the nurses she was friends with had seen pictures of this dress. Meena would be there, and was adamant that Molly should sell the thing, not ruin it. She didn't want a scene, especially not now John had said he was dragging along 'his nibs'.

Molly, Sherlock and parties weren't the greatest of combinations, as they inevitably ended with one of them getting hurt, and the other issuing apologies- ones that were always grovelling in Molly's case. The first (and last) of these parties that Sherlock had attended had resulted in a fracas that landed him with a broken nose, two other men with a trip to A&E, and Molly with a sternly worded letter from her boss, and the owner of the venue involved. She had almost lost her job, and Greg had sworn Mycroft had interfered somehow when the GBH charges against Sherlock had miraculously disappeared over night. It was not an experience she was keen to revisit. Then there was that disastrous Christmas party, Sherlock's funeral (she shuddered at the thought of that day), and the Watson's wedding. She hoped that if he did turn up then Mary could keep him under control.

Sherlock skulked into the party, his eyes scanning the room, disapproval radiating from his face. He was only there to appease John, who was insistent that they should go and support Molly. The thought of her needing their support had made Sherlock snort rather inelegantly, she'd been doing these for years and was more than proficient at it. Watching people try to solve the murder mystery, however, was worth the face paint Mary had attacked him with. She'd been most insistent that as it was her first night out 'in forever', he would have to dress up and 'not ruin it for her', and as he had no intention of being maimed this evening, he would simply be his delightfully grumpy self in a quiet corner somewhere.

Molly was pleasantly tipsy by the time she found the three of them seated around an amusingly small table in the corner of the room. Sherlock and Mary were enjoying watching John attempt to solve the puzzles she'd set, which got progressively funnier as his alcohol intake increased. Mary was the first to spot Molly making her way over to them, and waved furiously in her direction, making sure that both Sherlock and John noticed her. Molly gave an enthusiastic wave back, and hurried over to the trio, trying not to trip over the bottom of the dress in the process. It was a stunning mass of silk, organza and tulle, which sat off the shoulder, with a corseted bodice that gave way to a full skirt.

The sight before him made Sherlock feel a little ill, and not only because it reminded him that she nearly married an incompetent fool. He was instantly transported back to Victorian London, and another woman in a wedding dress who rose from the dead. Despite the make-up on his face, he must have visibly paled, as Mary kicked his shin (a little more forcibly than necessary), and brought his thoughts crashing back down to Earth. He ignored the questioning look from Mary, and gave Molly a shaky smile instead, hoping that she would be too preoccupied to notice.

Thankfully for him, she was, and she spent the next fifteen minutes ranting about how Meena didn't appreciate her genius upcycling of her dress, much to Mary and John's amusement.

"Maybe I should have done that with mine," Mary said, a wicked grin on her face. John choked on his drink

"With the amount we paid for it?!" John wheezed, he wasn't aware that something worn for so little time could cost so much!

"Quiet John, you're starting to sound like Meena." Mary teased, laughing at his offended expression

"-But less scouse," Molly added, as if that, and not the deeper, masculine voice was the issue with his unwitting impression.

"Thankfully," Sherlock muttered, earning an elbow in the ribs for his contribution. John shook his head and left the table to fetch more drinks, dragging the detective up along with him.

Once the men had left, Molly took a long look at the suspicious Cheshire cat like grin on Mary's face. The woman was scheming, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what her goal was. She'd encouraged Molly to wear the dress, to zombify her face, and then turned up with Sherlock looking utterly edible in a morning suit, and equally undead make-up. She wondered if Mary had pair of rings and a marriage certificate hidden on her person somewhere – it wouldn't surprise her. The two talked of men, and their stereotypical approach to wedding planning, until Sherlock and John made it back with two very large, colourful cocktails, and two pints of ale. John put the two pints down in front of himself and Mary, leaving the two zombies with the lurid concoctions, complete with floating eyeball and umbrella.

Two drinks, four dances, and a large plate of nachos later, and it was approaching 11 pm. The crowds were thinning, off home or to continue the party elsewhere, and Molly had found herself propped up against Sherlock, perilously close to falling asleep. He smelt good, he was warm, and she was not far off drunk, it was a dangerous combination.

"You deserve a proper dance in that dress," Sherlock said quietly, his breath hot against her ear.

"To the monster mash?" She replied, supressing a shiver. She could feel his chuckle more than hear it, before he scooped her up on to her feet, dragging her towards the dancefloor. They cut a wide path across the floor as Sherlock lead her in a waltz, her shoeless feet on top of his, their painted faces with matching grins. The song came to an end, and he dipped her with all the magic of a fairy tale, her head spinning with alcohol and adrenaline. The two made their way out of the building, without so much as a backward glance for the pair they'd left behind.

Mary adjusted her witches hat and smirked at her husband, the magic of Halloween indeed.


	2. Z is for Zebras

_This was supposed to be the first chapter of Z-A, but Molly having a garden was a glaring continuity error that wouldn't let me do it, so it's here instead. Enjoy :)_

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Z is for Zebra, Zinfandel, Zambia, Zoo

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Despite not seeing hide nor hair of Sherlock for over two weeks now, Molly knew he'd been in and out of both her flat and the lab. There was a note here, some food there, and the faint whiff of cigarette smoke by her back door – not to mention the piles of washing, and occasional experiment detritus, although he was getting better at tidying up after himself. It was odd, as she was used to at least catching glimpses of him, or being swooped in upon in the lab, but he seemed to be avoiding her. She wondered briefly if he was giving her space after his role in the demise of her engagement, but the thought left as quickly as it entered, a brief chuckle sending it on its way. It was more likely that he was involved in some scheme that he didn't want her to know about until it was too late for her to talk him out of it- it wouldn't be the first time he'd avoided her for weeks to avoid being scolded for his lack of self-preservation. What was niggling away at the back of her mind, however, was the timing of it all, it was no coincidence that he'd gone off the radar so soon after John's wedding.

Just when she thought she might be getting concerned enough about him to bother Mycroft, however, she arrived home to find evidence of his existence had manifested itself in the shape of a zebra. A live, black and white striped creature tied to a post in her back garden, munching away quite happily on whatever foodstuff Sherlock had provided it with. She sighed heavily and made her way to the fridge, where half a bottle of wine awaited her. Glass in hand, she searched her house for any clues as to why there was an exotic, possibly illegal animal residing in her garden, and if any instructions had been left regarding what she should do about it. Her first search turned up nothing, as did the second, and with no patience to do a third, she gave up and poured herself some more wine- if Sherlock wanted something doing, she'd know about it.

The evening passed as any other, and she toyed with the idea of going out to see the zebra, but the look in its eye as she opened the back door was not a welcoming one. She scolded herself quietly, zebras were wild animals and should be respected as such, so she shut the curtains on it, and went back to her book.

Two days later, the zebra was still in her garden, with its own little house, steady supply of food, and absolutely no explanation. She'd spoken to Mycroft, Anthea, and Mrs Holmes, but even they had no clue as to what Sherlock was up to. Needless to say she'd tried communicating with the man himself, but after texting, notes, phone calls, and even questions iced onto gingernuts in an attempt at bribery, no answers had been forthcoming. His lack of response was irksome, to say the least, and after a week, she was contemplating untying the zebra and leaving the back gate open, but the consequences should she mess up one of Sherlock's convoluted plans were not worth it. She'd done that once, entirely by accident, and never again. She hadn't seen him as angry as that since.

It had been a silly thing, early on in their acquaintance: she'd moved his pen. In hindsight she should have known not to go anywhere near him, as he'd been on a short fuse all week, with a particularly nasty case about a drowning. Mycroft was hovering about more than usual, adding to the stress, and being generally unhelpful. She'd been making notes on a slide near where Sherlock was brooding, and absentmindedly picked up his pen instead of hers. She'd placed it back down, not an inch from where it had been, but not five minutes later, when the detective came out of his mind palace, all hell broke loose. It was the first, and last time she had found herself afraid of him. Granted, she'd been afraid for him too many times to count, but this was different. _He_ had been different. It was after he'd left her shaking in the corner of the lab, that Mycroft entered, and elaborated on his little brother's habit. He solved the case that evening, and the following day she had come home to fresh flowers on her coffee table. She never knew which Holmes sent them. It was that day she decided to make sure that Sherlock Holmes was never bored, and that his strange requests would be seen to. She was determined to not let Sherlock squander his talents, and end up on her slab, covered in needle marks.

Thus the Zebra (named Nigel after the third day on her property) remained, untampered with, for a total of eight baffling days. Mary and John visited not long after they'd returned from their honeymoon, partly to see her, but also to investigate the striped friend in her garden. They'd eaten heartily, and tried to make up the most elaborate explanation for the animal possible, with the stories becoming wilder, and less feasible as the evening went on. Greg Lestrade had also been round to view Nigel, popping in after work one evening, snapping a picture and sending it to Anderson, who was threatening to turn up himself, just to check Greg wasn't making a fool of him.

Mr and Mrs Holmes had also come by on one of their scheduled visits while the zebra had been in residence. The pair treated Molly to tales of Sherlock's childhood, his obsession with pets leading to more than one altercation with the RSPCA. It was where his detective work had started, apparently, looking out for lost animals, and mistreated ones, leaving anonymous phone calls to the relevant authorities in cases of abuse. He'd saved a tortoise once, and begged his parents to be able to keep it, he'd wanted to name it Clyde, but Mycroft had intervened. That was when the lectures on sentiment had begun. There was something so sad in their faces, at the end of the tale, that Molly couldn't bring herself to ask about it. Instead she tried to cheer them up by informing them that Sherlock had been sharing Toby recently, and the notion of the cat's favourite sleeping place being his head set smiles back on their faces.

It wasn't until she switched on the tele, early one morning after her night shift, that she realised the zebra had been relocated. The news claimed it was smuggling of some sort, for rich idiots with more money than sense, and that several of the animals had been rehomed at Whipsnade Zoo. A Zambian game keeper, and two customs officials had been arrested. It seemed odd to her, that if it was a simple case of smuggling, then there should have been no need to hide the zebra in her garden. She sighed, switched it off, and decided to celebrate the ability to go in her own garden again by eating breakfast out there.

When she'd finished, she inspected her lawn for any damage caused by Nigel, or his sleeping quarters, and to her surprise found a small dusting of white powder near to where he was tethered. When is animal smuggling not animal smuggling? When it's actually a front for transporting drugs. Molly sighed, there was undoubtedly more to it, but until Sherlock deigned to talk to her, she'd leave her own investigations there.


	3. K is for Kidnap

5\. "Take what you need." - prompt from the Fictober list on tumblr

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Molly was tidying up after a long day arguing with just about every piece of equipment in the lab. The centrifuge wouldn't get up to speed, the mass spec sample loader wasn't being recognised by the software, despite being all wired up correctly, and the icing on the cake, she'd run out of pipette tips. She was just hanging up her lab coat when Sherlock burst into the room, coat billowing out behind him dramatically. She took a deep breath, and with one hand on the door knob, told him to take whatever he needed, she was going home.

What she hadn't anticipated, was Sherlock picking her up in a fireman's lift, and carrying her out of the door, safety specs still on her face. They were almost out of the building by the time she'd got over the initial shock, and started demanding to be put down. She could have sworn she felt him chuckle, but he did not put her down until they were outside, and it was directly into a car she didn't recognise. She sighed to herself, as if impromptu kidnap wasn't enough, Sherlock got in the driver's side, and put the key in the ignition. She started to look in her pockets for her phone, groaning when she remembered it was in her bag, in her office.

"Handbag is in the boot," He said gruffly, pulling out of the hospital carpark with alarming speed. At least he'd remembered that, even if she couldn't get to it.

She sat back and stared out the window, wondering where he could be taking her. It wasn't to Baker Street, or her house, and they were heading in the wrong direction for John or Lestrade. There was a slim possibility they were going to visit Mycroft, but a left turn or two put that idea to bed. Soon they were out of London entirely, careening down the almost empty M23 until they hit a long segment of roadworks, where the speed dropped to something Molly found less terrifying. It did not last long, however, as Sherlock opted to come off at the next junction and fly down the country lanes with unnerving precision.

It was another twenty minutes before they reached their destination, a beautiful redbrick cottage in the middle of the Sussex countryside. Sherlock came around to open her door, having retrieved her handbag from the boot, as if she hadn't been brought there without explanation, and they did this frequently. She followed him up to the door, which he opened with an old, dull key, one that looked like it had been on his keyring for years. It had to be a case, or an Airbnb near a case, although why he'd book something quite so large for just the two of them was strange. The photos on the wall seemed familiar, for a reason she couldn't put her finger on, and Sherlock seemed to have taken off his shoes. She was beginning to wonder if the fumehood had been broken, and she'd inhaled slightly too much solvent; Sherlock rarely took his shoes off, in case of a quick getaway.

"Surprise!" greeted her as she entered the living space ahead of Sherlock, where several of their friends were stood around, drinks in hand and party hats on heads. Two familiar faces amongst them playing host explaining where she was – the Holmes house. She turned around to Sherlock,

"Happy Birthday, Molly Hooper," He said with a smile, gesturing for her to go and join the others.

John, little Rosie, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mr Holmes and even Mycroft came over to wish her many happy returns, before being bustled out of the way by Mrs Holmes.

"Have you come straight from work?" She asked, looking Molly up and down,

"You could say that. I didn't have much choice in the matter," She said wryly, aware that regardless of what she said next, Sherlock was likely to receive an earful from his mother.

"What did that idiot boy do? Kidnap you? He gets more like his brother every day." Mrs Holmes bristled, striding off to find her younger son.

Her presence was quickly replaced by Mr Holmes wielding a plate of food, a large gin and tonic, and enough small talk that they were left alone while she ate. It helped that everyone else was too busy watching Sherlock, and Mycroft get scolded for their manners. Sherlock had tried to justify himself, saying that Molly had told him to take what he needed, so he had just taken her. Unsurprisingly, it did not go down well.

Molly thanked Mr Holmes for the sustenance and the company, and went to relieve John of his parental duties for a while. Rosie was just walking, and as a result did not want to be stationary for a minute, which was exhausting for him as a single parent. They walked around the lounge, the kitchen, back through the dining room, across the hallway, doing the loop a few times, until John decided that Molly ought to enjoy her own party, rather than have her time monopolised by everyone's favourite toddler.

Lestrade had caught Sherlock watching Molly as she walked around with Rosie, a fond look on his face when he thought no one else was looking. After everything that had happened in the last year or so, the two had got back to amiable speaking terms, but both wanted, needed more, and he was going to find a way to get them together, even if it meant locking them in a room until they finally came to their senses. Hopefully he wouldn't need to, however, as Mrs Holmes, and Mrs Hudson, were also conspiring with him. After John had retrieved Rosie, Greg made a beeline for Molly, she needed to know whose idea this had been.

It had all been Sherlock's idea, the party, the venue, the guest list, the surprise, he had wanted to do something for her outside of Molly's Day, something that proved to her she was an integral part of all their lives. What had surprised Lestrade, was when he found out that Sherlock had also organised the party. A quick word to his mother, and she would have sorted the whole thing gladly, but he had insisted on doing it himself, something he was particularly keen to tell Molly.

The rest of the day passed quickly, with some of Molly's favourite games, plenty of food, and free-flowing drink; before she knew it, she was yawning, and trying not to fall asleep in the comfy armchair she had found herself in. Most of the guests had already departed, or gone up to bed, so she did not feel guilty about hauling herself out of the chair, so she could turn in too. She was a little overzealous in her movements, however, and would have ended up face first on the floor, had Sherlock not been lurking to catch her. He chuckled under his breath, arm tucked around her waist to steady her, close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath. They made it upstairs before Molly half-extracted herself from his hold, curious as to why he'd gone to the trouble of planning all that just for her, adamant that he was silly for wasting time on such frivolous things. He smiled down at her, shaking his head,

"We all do silly things," He said, parroting her own words back at her from many years ago. He had intended for it to be poetic, but the link was tenuous, and she just looked at him curiously, waiting for the punchline. He was about to try and salvage the moment, when the penny dropped, and Molly turned the most magnificent shade of fuchsia.

"You're not x-raying my possessions, are you?" She asked tentatively, hoping she had got the reference

"I can do, if you'd like me to," Sherlock replied, uncharacteristically nervous

"I'd like that very much." She stated, taking his hand in hers.

Mrs Holmes smiled from the bottom of the stairs, the words meaning little, but the tone saying enough. She went back into the lounge to give them a little privacy, and share the good news with her husband – they may be getting grandchildren after all!


End file.
